Song of the Messaline
by teddybowties
Summary: It's the Doctors' birthday...and Sally decides to scour the Doctor's mind for the perfect present. MPREG in previous story.
1. Chapter 1

Song of the Messaline

_A Doctor Who Fanfic_

_I do not own Doctor Who; however, there is nothing quite like that first gushy feeling you get when you realize you want to. Over. And Over. And Over. And Over. And Over. And Over. Ad Infinitum._

_Being a sequel to my previous piece, Family Way, this story relates certain events in which Sally plays a definitive, and mehopes, interesting role. Basically it's complete rubbish. Rot. Refuse. Trash. Throw-away. Crap. I could have done better. But feel free to disagree!!! I won't know if you don't TELL MEEEE..._

_Care for a Jelly Baby? Hugs to all, and again..._

_RevIeWs ARe CoOkiEs._

Chapter One

"_Gallifreya the Messaline_! You can't have REAL food at a pretend tea party! Ruins the effect!" Sally's father whined into his not so empty teacup. "Where's the fun in pretending, otherwise? Gobs..." The corners of his mouth dove in tandem then, revealing one of those pleasing little false frowns her mother Rose found so attractive. Rose, of course, was sitting across the table from them both, watching all of this with a certain degree of amusement. Sally, too, felt cheered by her half-human father's awe-struck attentiveness, her mother's embracing acceptance of it all, and was quite content to revel in the emotional radiation of both parents while other children clung to stuffed toys like lifelines. _She_ knew she was not _other children_. She had always known, from the moment her father -both her fathers- had called her into being from the Void. Both had tried to sacrifice themselves to save their respective dimensions, though she of course would have none of it. They were too important to the grandness of it all. A laugh caught in her throat, and she allowed it, relishing the light, airy tickle of contentment as it burst from her lips. Apparently her voice was sweet and soft, two words her father was very fond of using to describe her. And so she was, doted on and adored by John Smith, her half- human, half-Time Lord father and his human wife, his Rose. Still, it had never mattered that Rose Marion Tyler's being her mother was only a fortunate technicality, despite the fact that it had been her father the Time Lord who had carried her within his body, nurtured her, delivered her unto the worlds. But Rose, the woman he loved, had helped them both through the ordeal, worrying and caring and loving as only humans can, and for this, Sally would be grateful to Rose until all life was dust at her feet. With a light flick of her loose white curls, Sally looked at her parents and took a sip of tea herself, presenting her best smile a second time when they could see within her features the happy sort of solace she knew such a gesture to convey. Then she turned her face away from them to gaze at her Father. It was rather like opening or closing a door, for her. She drank in his features, reveling in each similarity between his counterpart, who had married Rose, and himself, who was still only ever the Lonely God. Or so he liked to claim. Ever since she had begun, though, he had been gradually warming, thawing out his emotional mechanisms after far too long a time without them. It was a rather pleasant thought to have been of assistance to him, Sally reasoned, smoothing her white dress while her father the Doctor sat busily discussing the ramifications of genetic manipulation with the pretty, dark-skinned physician, Martha Jones-Gettys. This woman, too, deserved respect, for she had helped Sally's father as well, though her love for him, unrequited through no fault of its own, had left such a stain upon the rooms of her mind and heart that she'd felt forced to leave their traveling days behind her and settle down with the calm-eyed Mister Gettys. Yet Father and Martha had remained close friends. Sally smiled again, this time reaching out with her thoughts to gently brush the full Time Lord's mind. It was as simple as blowing on a feather, and oh! That magnificent mind of his was so very beautiful, brimming with unbridled hopes and death and half-dreamed dreams, so very filled to bursting with joy at the chaos of existence and the fancies of wanderlust, tempered and honed forever by the manifold finality of regret. How wondrous that he had been the one to bring her into being. How wondrous indeed.

"_Daddy, I want to know something. May I come in?" _She spoke toward him, her soft, sure rap on the doors of his mind echoing across the surrounding landscape of brainwaves like the sway of long grass in a sudden wind. The Doctor stiffened the instant he felt her psychic touch on him, then, relaxing from the initial encounter, swiftly adjusted his multi-spatial attentions to allow her entry. She was getting good at lying.

"_Of course, sweetheart! Feel free to rifle through, just don't touch anything dangerous. I wouldn't want anyone stuck in here with me, least of all you. Have fun!" _ His murmured welcome was exuberant and special, so utterly attendant on her that soon all his other lines of thought were running around like headless chickens and crashing into walls whilst he hurried to clear off the various bits of furniture collecting dust in the entry hall of his brain. It _had_ been a while since they'd spoken, after all...a whole hour for the humans. Perhaps she would try using her vocal chords today, since Father seemed to enjoy it so very much. Then she bounded down the long hallway of his mind, eyes flicking to this and that, noting the paintings that lined the walls. But they weren't paintings, they were doors, windows into her father's psyche. A drifting seascape. A field of rolling red hills and golden sunbeams. Silver mountains that chimed when some seventeen moons rose and set with the toll of a bell. All the races he'd known and the people he'd loved, set like pictures in a museum. A young-seeming woman with long blonde hair whose eyes held wisdom like his own. A girl named Jenny, her older sister, whom she very much doubted was dead. Her mother, Rose, trapped with John Smith in the alternate universe. Other companions appeared in the frames, some male, some female, some neither. All these pictures were really more windows than portraits, and she found herself wanting to meet every face, to taste the air her father's friends had breathed, to see those parts of him. Perhaps another time when she was free to explore, she might investigate. Meanwhile, the majesty of a million different memories flooded by as she passed, and she grinned at his thoughtfulness.

"Thank you for the tour, father. It's all so grand..." She whispered, and immediately she felt his long fingers on her hair, patting her head, his strong, slender arms squeezing her in a gentle hug. Then his presence retracted from hers and he was gone again talking to Martha and uncle Jack, off on another of his tangential verbal escapades involving higher mathematics or advanced space travel or the latest scientific discovery about the health benefits of fudge. A small part of Sally wondered who he was talking to, but it wasn't polite to pry and he wasn't divulging, so she moved further on into the room at the end of the hall. The hall had been narrow and slightly dark, just the way she liked it, with a deep red runner down the length, with tassels and stone benches and everything. But _this_ room, it was white, bright, clean, full of nothingness and cool, comforting sterility. It was nice in its way, the industrial-style furniture sparse, perhaps even minimalist, the doors thick metal slabs set with wires into skinny rectangular frames. A copy of Harry Potter lay half-read on a triangular side table that stuck out from the side of the wall. There were even a few sleek vinyl look beanbag chairs tossed about the ceiling. The Doctor's mind was rather like the TARDIS, she mused, and so she wasn't all that surprised to find a huge golden door on a wall where there hadn't been anything. It seemed a tablet of pure light, carved with Gallifreyan letters that moved and shone with each speck of existence that hit them. She touched the surface; it was smooth, undulating, crawling with energy like ants in the sugar. Pressing her face to it, Sally could feel the hum of the ship as it resonated with pleasure at her presence. Had the ship been laughing with mirth? One thank you kiss against the gleaming portal, and then she was off into the next compartment, a crystal and limestone cavern lined with books. There were mosses of every sort and structure, growing from anything, the Queen Anne chairs, the stepstool, a discarded rickshaw in the corner with a healthy sheath of coruscant blue lichen from the planet Batrev. And in the center of it all dangled a gigantic silver fob watch, turning slowly on its sterling chain from the high, uneven ceiling. She gave a mental shrug in mild disappointment, and left the room through a side door done up in faded orange paint and locked with several broken deadbolts. It was wonderful so far, every room of his mind so different and self-evident, but none of those had quite been what she was looking for. Finding that was going to take some searching after all, so...perhaps a bit of backtracking was in order. Besides, who would know what Father wanted for his _impromptu_ 905th birthday better than his beloved TARDIS? Trembling with anticipation, Sally retraced her steps back to the white room with the golden door, and stepped inside.

Chapter Two: coming soon.

HA!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The Doctor was incensed. Agitated. Irritated. Frazzled. Addled by the highs and lows of parental frustration. Sally was doing something in his mind, and he couldn't find her. His footsteps echoed sullenly against the veranda stones whilst he paced, wandering about in the back halls of his mind trying to find where she'd gone. "I can't find her! Where is she? Sally! You had better be brilliant on this, coz when I get a hold of you...you'll be sorry!" He had already searched the dusty foyer too many times to count, and she wasn't in any of the normal cubby holes he'd built for her. Where was that girl? He was about to tear out his hair, for Rassilon's sake!

She was sitting at the table with a little doll in her hands. It was a bisque doll, fashioned to look like her, with a little white dress and long white hair, just like hers. But _she_ wasn't there. She was in his head, exploring. What if something happened? What if she got lost and never came out again? What if she got into something she shouldn't? What if she got confused? What if he got confused? What if her ice cream melted before she got back? There were too many variables to even begin to consider. He collapsed back into his chair, which someone, probably good old Uncle Jack or Auntie Martha, had pulled out and placed behind him, in case he forgot that he wasn't behind the table any longer. He'd gotten up, needing to walk about and look bothered. Trouble was, he was bothered, very bothered. "Oh, if Donna were here, she'd have given that girl what for...Oi! Martha you hit my head. M' gonna cry! You're mean. Meanie."

"Well, you did mention Donna again for the fifteenth time today. 'ts not healthy, the way you go on about what she would or would not have done. Honestly! Am I gonna have to give you a sedative? Snap you down with leathers? No, scratch that," she said, casting a sidelong glare at Jack, who seemed suspiciously hopeful at the prospect. "Captain Ahab there might care to elaborate."

Jack just smiled and pointed a finger at himself, copping a cherubic expression acquired through years of long practice. "Not Ahab, Martha. He never got his wish. Besides, I much prefer Captain Nemo. _His_ ship gets to go underwater."

A faint coughing sound issued from the Doctor's white rattan plantation chair. "Ix nay on the insinuation, eh! Even if Sally's consciousness _is_ snooping about inside my head, her brain can still record the information it hears. And I don't want her knowing anything about anything until she's too old to care, say...in five hundred years or so? So knock it off, you two! I'm _busy_, and this is delicate work!" He slumped back then, eyes closed, head tilted, his skinny neck resting on the chair round. "Though, I would appreciate a pillow...don't want to wake up with a crick...well, hop to!"

Silence.

Silence.

More silence, and the sound of crickets singing somewhere.

"Oh, jolly good! All my friends are slave drivers and charlatans who won't get me a little pillow, just a little pillow so I can rescue my daughter, who went on a pic-a-nic in daddy's head. Blimey! You two are barmy gits, is wot. A brace of barmy gits! Oh that ought to be a song! Brace of barmy gits...oh tra la la lally! Erm, noooo. Guess not. And that's that. Now be quiet, or I'll make you be quiet!"

Sensing an opening, Jack snatched up an overstuffed cranberry bolster and tiptoed over to stand behind the Time Lord's chair, one hand on the pillow, and one hand on the white, woven chair back. His finger was on his lips as he looked over at Martha, who was holding her breath with a hand over her husband's mouth.

"Jack! Don't do it!"

Harkness just smiled and shrugged. Then he bent over the Doctor's too-still face, leaning closer until he could feel the Time Lord's shallow breaths on his skin. He was much too excited to breathe, of course. He was holding it, quite expertly. Soldier-y stuff. As he closed his eyes, he imagined himself as the bolster, sliding under the man's neck, caressing that hair, that spiky mess of delicious hair. He could drown in that hair, in those brown eyes that held a thousand sadnesses...gods. The man smelled like sunshine on seawater, like stardust. Like a windy field of tall wheatgrass at midnight. Like the pure, dangerously addictive nectar of regret. The memory of water came to his mind, iced over and steaming with frost. He imagined himself taking his boots off and setting a toe to the frosted mud at the edge of the lake, flattening his foot on the cold, numbing surface. He wanted to walk out on the ice, to the midway point between the shore and the horizon line. The waters curved around a leftward bend a good meter off from his location. He could see the edges blur near the horizon as they followed the curves of the land out of sight. He took another few steps, shaking uncontrollably as the cold crawled through his bones. It was pleasant here, the air crisp and fresh in his nose, the chill taste of winter strong and heady on his tongue as he tasted a thick snowflake that had ended its short life on the back of his hand. He walked further out into the open center of the lake, feeling the sunlight bright and thin and barely warm on his skin. The sun wasn't warm enough...he shivered again as he remembered what time of year it was, and pulled his coat around himself. He'd rarely taken the chance to see snow, to experience winter on that little stick of rock called Boeshane, and this was lovely. Yeah...too bad the Doctor wasn't here to see it. As he gazed out at the horizon, the colors were surreal, reds, blues, pale greens scattered in amongst deep fuchsias and tiger lily yellows. The colors were dancing, uneven, as if someone had spilled paint on the table and tipped it to one side until it...

Water tugged at him, touching his spine with spiky fingers while it sucked at his warmth like a leech after plasma. He threw out an arm, trying to catch the flat of ice he'd been standing on, but soon he was just flailing blindly after anything that didn't move, that wasn't dark and wet and cold and all consuming. The cold would rip his heart out and feed it to him, if he let it. Well, drowning in sub zero water and then freezing when he woke up over and over was not on his to do list. But the water just kept crushing him, pulling him below...it was so dark, so deep, so freezing cold, that he just stopped breathing and floated. Down. Down. Down. His eyes closed. His body ceased its frantic surviving, and he just drifted away...seeing nothing, knowing nothing, until a hand grabbed him, a long fingered hand. What was a perfect hand like that doing in a place like this? Jack decided he wanted to kiss those lovely fingers, but he was too busy trying to hold his breath. At last the water crossed the threshold to fill his lungs with nipping frost, and he thought, at the last, _isn't this nice? Isn't...this..._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Sally opened her eyes. The room had expanded, a nice deception. Then again, father always said the TARDIS was bigger on the inside. Why should its mental existence be any different? There was still gold everywhere, though. Oh yes, that golden hart light shone all around her, in water, in grass, in sky, in the little clouds that drifted above her head like streams of whipped cream. Of course, she was the only thing of white in the place, an interesting fact in itself, as everything else, was, by default, inwardly gold-tinged with the TARDIS' essence. How far did the construct go? She knelt by a pond, made a cup with her hands to dip them. The water was mildly fragrant, smelling of apples and apple blossoms. It too, was gold. There were great floating astrolabes here and there, scattered like road signs across the skyscape, their parts whirring and spinning as they clicked and ground and adjusted, moving with one another as gears in tandem, each section tuned to their own rhythm along ticking golden teeth like the hands of a clock. Gazing into the little pool she'd made within the well of her fingers, Sally could see the reflections of countless stars. The trees themselves resembled the Cabbalist sefirot, _the tree of knowledge_, in their alien design, as they took the upward branching pattern of their namesake and copied it so precisely, the smooth weepwillow curves, the arrow shafts, the leaves of golden words whose every living vein bore Name and Destination for the seeker.

"Hrm," she mumbled aloud as she walked along gold paths toward one particular astrolabe, a rusted and beautiful thing strung with ten silver fob watches. One hung from each planet, and there was even a constellation or two, marked with what looked like letters, only prettier, more graphical and elegant than anything. And they moved as one read them...rather like music, she supposed brightly. Beneath the unmoving apparatus, there was a door, what seemed an unimportant sort of door, except that it seemed unimportant, so naturally, being well aware of her father's penchant for games and trickery and all sort of foul parental legerdemain, she of course found it quite appealing. In fact, it rather resembled the quaint little door to a certain halfling's hole. Sally could never, she was quite sure, adequately thank her father for introducing her to the classics of fine human literature...he always said Tolkien was one of the best. But what had she been going to say? Oh yes! The cool metal clasp of the lion's head doorknocker was in her hand by the time she remembered. "Book of Splendour, indeed!"

The landscape shimmered suddenly with the TARDIS' delight and dismay.

"But of course you're more than this, far better than the Zohar, than any book, really." Sally added, not wishing to bother the ship, who had been gracious enough to let Sally into Herself to search for a suitable birthday present for her Time Lord father. The handle of the door gleamed with faded yellow light, like a candle just out of reach. She reached for it, feeling the curve of metal fill her fingers as she twisted. The green door opened on darkness, a planet, more celestial bodies spinning together near it. But the planet...it had a red sky, silver mountains. She could see the shimmering peaks as though she stood on the TARDIS doorstep, looking on as the third planet in orbit around Sol 3 came about for another long sweep. But those tapering points of sheer rock were nothing like those of the Earth. No. They were the sterling hands of Daddy's homeworld, the planet Gallifrey, nestled in the bosom of the constellation Kasterborous. Gallifrey...the shining sphere that once had been the Jewel in the Crown of the Universe.

"Thank you." Sally spoke the words quietly, not willing to shatter the moment with a direct reference. She stepped within, and her feet touched frosted crystal. But it was dark inside the room, and she could not tell how far or wide the confines seemed to stretch. Seemed, for this was the construct of a mind on par with her own in-folding thoughts as well as her father's, a mind that knew they both enjoyed a good chase after treasure. And so here she was, at the end. Sally walked down a corridor whose floor was covered in crimson grass that shown with the metallic beauty of fresh blood in the dim, soothing light. The color was bright, despite the semi-darkness, and she could see a larger room at the end, all white and wider than the narrow corridor. When she came to it, it was like walking out from a darkened cabin onto a snowy landscape, all hills and trees and shrubs, white as clouds, crystallized into timelessness for an hour or so before it all begins to melt.

At the center of the room, there was a pedestal, a simple white wooden stool, faded like the old orange door. Faintly, she recalled suddenly the burn marks that had stained that door, and began to wonder why there was no stain of fire in this place. But then she remembered again, as she walked toward the stool and saw what lay upon it. There was a simple snow globe sitting there, all full of tiny red grass and silver peaks and crystal domes, lit by the genuflect light of two little orbs. The snowflakes weren't snowflakes at all, but little stars that most likely would dance as the globe was shaken. It was really a wonderful sort of gift, and so thoughtful. Just what Daddy needed.

"Thank you, again. I knew you'd know what to get Daddy on his birthday. Is he looking for me?"

The TARDIS key stuck in the side of the globe began to turn, and a little tune swam up, filling everywhere and everything with its quiet presence. Then a window grew out of the white wall, and a figure standing over another figure on an icy strand of beach.

Sally reached for the globe, peripheral vision locked on the two men outside. "And it's a music box, I see. I hope he enjoys it as much as he ought. Wasn't it nice of Daddy to rescue Uncle Jack? Oh yes, I thought so too."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_At last, he's awake. _

"Oi! I'm sorry! Funny how I don't recall inviting you to my private pool, Jack. You could have done far worse than drown in there, you damn monkey!"

Jack Harkness looked up at the man he loved more than any other man and smiled. "Well Doc, I could think of worse ways to die than drowning in a frozen lake inside your head."

"Fantastic," the Doctor said softly, mussing up the man's hair in a very rare show of affection. "But don't tell the others I saved you, or you'll regret it."

The Captain's entire body perked at the thought of what the Doctor didn't say. "Why Doctor! I'm hurt. I expected you to tell me you didn't want them knowing you gave me a pet."

A huff erupted from the Lord of Time's lips, after which he pouted like the father he maybe could have been more often so long ago. "Jack Harkness. How many times have I told you how dangerous it is inside my head? And if you mention the word pet again in the same metaphysical breath as anything having to do with me, I will leave you in here. Got it?" His bright fudge-y eyes were grinning of course, even if said lips hadn't quite got the memo.

Jack nodded and rose with some help. It was tantamount to the Doctor saying, _'Shut up you stupid ape and help me find my daughter.'_

"I can hear everything you think in here, you know," said the Time Lord drearily, rubbing a hand through his scruffy hair and muttering behind his slim, lovely hand.

"Yes, sir!" Jack saluted and narrowly avoided a glare from his friend that literally shot daggers, albeit warm sugary edible ones made of chocolate, like something found perhaps in a gourmet eatery.

Jack bounced up and caught one in his mouth, grinning like a drunken knife thrower as the Doctor's eyes turned a deep, plump, juiceful blue and briefly melted down his face, filling the space between them with hot little blueberry tarts.

"Wow, Doc... you really _can_ do pastry. Mmm... just like Jackie used to make!"

He reached over to grab the man and planted a lingering peck on the Gallifreyan's lips, which were trying unsuccessfully to twitch away and escape.

A sensation of being raised to a great height took him all at once, and with great ceremony he was prompted to look down, past his feet, past the mountain of whipped cream he hovered over, past the upward-falling figure of the Doctor, who was rising serenely to meet him.

"What was that movie? The Tarts Have Eyes?" said the Time Lord mock-drearily, gazing at where he held Jack in mid -air-, gloating like a bored Racnoss.

I shall be expecting nothing less than total quiet from you, Jack Harkness. This is not a time for idle chatter, or foreplay, gods forbid. Stop thinking of me as a flaky yet filling baked dessert and focus on why I'm here, calmly allowing you to make a fool of yourself while I search for my errant offspring!"

Jack nodded, halting the advance of his tongue across his lips only long enough to scour the available countryside for any conspicuous little slips of girls named Sally in fine white dresses.

"Aye aye, sir! No tiptoeing through tulips. Copy that."

Suddenly, the Doctor spun in the air as if scenting blood, thrusting his gaze toward a western slope of banana split on point, like a surging bloodhound. He snapped his fingers, and the world ended for Jack in a rush of black and gold, only to return again in a little wash of Prussian blue.

When Jack Harkness opened his eyes again, they were both standing at the foot of that far off peak, looking at a solitary pair of little girl shaped footsteps that led into the mount. Then his own worried gaze met the Doctor's own, and they continued inward.


End file.
